“Shuichi.” She breathes back at last, shedding an aphrodisiac ghost onto the dainty knob of his Adam’s apple and it—unfurls like a lacewinged drug, bleeds selenic spiders by the sweet, sweet dozen along his moon-kissed, dour circuits-of-being (—they’re all but memorial grounds now, archaic home to crescent kisses and waning whispers and all lacrimal shards of testament to her, and her and her—)

“Shuichi.”

“A-Ah—”

The irregulars between them warp like innocuous mana, threatening a rupture in him of the gentlest ilk—already he is dangling like a calcifier’s puppet over her ethereal maw, promethean doll-legs crudely poised and aching for a white-rabbit spillage—

“—I l v e y ”

She murmurs, almost croaks—and in the morgue-full of his murky fathomings crawls a limping, threadbare sob and—

—why of all people….would you

care to call me—

Anchor, croons the lonely, travelling finger, down a wan stretch of thigh to stir more frissons light as the fae. Truth.

Lies, the wormhole-vault in his ribcage mourns back, though he falls (typical) regardless – tangled softly by the heels into her angel’s mantra. Impostor.

he’s never deserved he’ll never deserve

“ — l v ”

The static bleats past his ears in a fraught finale and she- -he realizes that she

th—at angel’s mantra is g—

and the hangman tiptoes out a starry farewell, its organs retching out a storm of plasmic kingdoms—… qu i et Q u i- –

—gnaws away at the lunulae entombed in his irises, a harlequin foreboding armed with aknife down the gullet

And in the hollows of his lungs, the programmed reapers yield their squalls, sickle-limbs flailing in the muffling, democratic dark as she topples—contents cascading down his calves and his industrial blue throat, and into those damaged keyholes-in-his-eyes that beat once, like mundane quartzes—(in the presence of her, but)

—now the puppet plummets endlesslyinto a cradle spiked with tendoned vanes, bathed in

they’ll warble at your doorbell soon, I’m sure- –
reckon you a circus-pile of reject axons
{ tightropes a morbid-measure too loosefor panoramic liking.“and, if you could, young anomaly- –
bid the psycho-lions out
of their quixomatic dens }
we do honestly want to eviscerate them—”

but don’t be afraid
I’ll meet you—

x – 1 ;

take your dime-sized chimeras and jack-in-the-dendrons, I’llteach you where to go, where thosemanxome eyes’ll fit in those entrails, neat—finally, right- –

;; x – x

I’ll meet you down down down down
at dopamine harbor- -where the hypodermic felons are.
your tongues can play a festooned game and I’ll
watch with feline graphtoid slits- –

maybe therapy’ll blossom then
for the both of us
a nicer kind (- –void of shitty prism-prophecy for us = (the spirograph and the mortem fang)

and I say,
{ cue the records, green-stroked reamsdeadman sheen to frame it all – –fire the account—amorphous fusillade of gallowsto the adolescent-hologram that molders
in omnipresent hiding – –
contrivance of secular tellers – -de|serves; to r-otinsideoutside in upov er…

and It tells you, in whispers esoteric (technical waifs, I’d befriended them – –
friends ; I’d always wanted, you know—
that there are creeping codes to living , – –
a city of vermin posing as civilian cryptogram
to marshal revelry in robotic blanche, and safeguard
{ the Colon command }V
– – immobilize the cardiac panel – –immobilize now , aeons proscribed—
poised for dark deletion.

x

logistics whirr, tandem in medicine
in the sugar-flecked malaise of rococo bleach ;
{ why were the pavers late? just. damn WH ..Y—[V“…you botched the pact, and I know
see that sacrilegious meta-claw, how it spumes
toxic, vilest-fresh from Wonderland.and you plead not, lifeless hallowed appeal! but
– -by the scheme-of-flesh, I vow
to raze the lights. decimation
’till I am free.

And there is a jarring irony in this temporal notion of being, lacing with the subtlest of malice-strung intents through wiry courses of circulating substance — dead cells from bio-morgues that pool into liquid visibility at the most feeble of pricks and the most triumphantly titanic of brazen massacres, the excavation of entrails and the demented hacking of tendons and bone and of all of the cumbersome little minutiae that buzz frenetically in between.

— And in all these things, a niggling finiteness buds, stinging with a bitter relapse of the bygone.

He loathes this, as he does most things.

The oppressive confinement of an unwieldy brittle mould, the precedence of an illogically imperative sustenance, of feeding bulky, beating masses and hideous, dripping lumps in cardinal subservience — and for what?

They are the antithesis of possibility, of the exalted cortex and its poised nexus of cosmic visions and acute flashes of prophecy.

And of this he has been certain for as long as he’s lived, that the noble lauding of vitamins and material supplements, that the prostrate worshipping of charts of circadian cycles and shrill, shrieking calls to eat, drink and sleep—

Embody the pinnacle of folly, down to its transcendental provenance.

….. Though–

In spite of this glaring error of design — he must concede — there are assets to be wrung from the tiresome scheme of the biological being.

There is the apparatus of maneuvering, and of deploying bladed projectiles at the scum that waft vexingly across his vision–

— And, oh. there is the relish of the dissonance that follows in earnest pursuit: the timely sirens of arrant pain, and the crescendo of agony that sketches a tune of victory in his ears.

And then, there are the lips, the mechanism of articulation and, of greater utility, trial. They funnel masked riddles and muddling charades, penetrating and ruthless as they partake in the dredging of foibles and the callous appraisal of faculty’s bounds.

But best of all are his nails, he surmises. Tiny, contoured slabs of yet another elusive fibre of many, narrowed and curved into an… effectual substitute.

The recourse for an absence of honed, forged blades. The most basal of armaments for the deflection of threat.

The slashing of pride and the searing of trust, the drawing of plumes of gray and globules of red and the strangled contortion of a countenance and the rumblings of ire and tragedy and more of that, please, if you will, and you will—

And there comes a chilling standstill, as time retracts its agency in equal mortification of this ghastly, odious deed. And there is, for perhaps the first time since this fallacious, fleshy mould came into being–

–a hike of agony that breaches all known frequencies.

And at this tremulously climactic spike of a frisson, he is inclined to reflect again — on how wonderful and marvelous and thrilling and soul-charging it is to carve with these disguised claws and to sow the festering seeds of ruin into a sacrosanct insignia of petty pursuits and bloated heroism he’d sooner crush beneath his heel, and one so conveniently inked onto the sheath of his… impractical physical entity.

It is also then when he realizes, amidst the fury that boils in the air and the incipient echoes of ‘traitor, traitor’ in the crooks and the nooks of his gnarled mind–

It comes in flashes — brief, fleeting, though inexplicably daunting in each hasty, crude arrival, wreaking havoc on his fraying consciousness–

— Fraying… that’s right. It seems as if he can scarcely think lately.

It’s even harder when the words he once commandeered so effortlessly — with all his sinister indulgences and lyric-stained puppet strings — run amok, pouring dangerously out of line as something crashes in like the apocalypse.

Every twinge that rumbles in his–

… hi_s.

[…. heart… yes, one of those… he… does have one of those… right–?]

As tarnished, blotched and utterly irreparable as it is–

Every twinge that rumbles on is a sign that he’s losing it.

://you_TAKE_me_down

://you_BRING_me_down

://you_SHUT_me_down

__ _ y o _ u . _ _ .

Generosity breeds resentment.

— The irony of this seems laughable, and yet, it pulses through him, undeterred in its fury-driven raid, ravaging like a forest fire.

It consumes him, it becomes him. Because all he can see–

— is him smiling the way he does to every worthless, writhing creature that passes him by.

Repulsive, isn’t it. Cheapness at its finest.

And he waits for the accursed ache to dull as he plows through the insults, the barbs, the scathing verbal blades he’s held in perpetual reserve, like an emaciated specter — hunched, crooked and dragging pitifully through the infestations of a riven, cognitive wasteland.

[How dare he how dare he how dare he–]

::_ YOU ___ NEVER ___ LOOKED _ AT > > __ _ me.

NOT EVEN ONCE –

NOT EVEN ONCE .

The memories cave in, crumbling into a frightful splatter.

Like blood, very much like blood.

It’s the prelude of a chapter of self-destruction. And from here, he can amend this.

— This error.

The error of a recalcitrant desire, one that’s spiraled out of his fallaciously impeccable control.

–what control?–

He is seething, barring out the weak-willed wishes with every last shred of his rent ego.

He’d never known it to be this hard.

because _ you _ h at e _ m e. : )

He needs him.

So much.

And this propels his self-loathing to a cosmic height–

–What? What are you

talking about?

[A venomous sneer.]

This is a mere game.

Amusement is rare to come by, after all. And if I can make him want me–

For a long time now, he’s paid witness to the optimism that powers this boy’s brittle psyche — one that pulses with a daunting might through its pitiful, crudely-taped cracks; one that shines relentlessly through optic wells of azure blue, wells beneath which he (with merely a fraction of his cynical awareness) can discern an ocean’s worth of untamed wonders, springing lavishly from the soul and blossoming generously forth in an abundance of smiles and laughter and echoes of an everlasting vibrance.

He’s intrigued, fairly. By these…. wonders he finds swimming freely about in the glaring vacancies that litter this boy’s being, as laughably far-fetched as they seem.

And it is in light of this discovery that — deep in the recesses of his own twisted, knotted mind — he senses a queer shift in the vital patterns of the wretched, morbid thoughts that lurk beneath its shadowy folds. Amidst dreams that pile in through the night, he finds them seething with all-new desires — cravings he’s never known — as they wrap obsessively around the prospect of picking this–

–sad, sorry… strangely beautiful boy’s soul apart and letting it crumble to the rotten pieces its feeble sutures once strove (–so very, very… painfully hard–) to keep intact. And perhaps then, he can scavenge for the light that once used to linger stubbornly on, now a withering flicker amidst fragments of a cardiac husk.

It is beneath the shelter of the night that he nurses these thoughts, fingers curling and unraveling in eerie sync with the rhythm of his malevolent cognitions. He lies, still amidst a tangle of sheets, golden eyes shifting ambiguously beneath a bedraggled curtain of raven-coloured locks, as he revels in the images of him — a sun-lit, stalwart angel whose light he’d more than love to sap dry, in a self-fulfilling extraction.

After all, he muses, a void such as he could accommodate anything.

An endless, murky void–

purposeless and wrought with a perpetual need—

He is yearning, he realizes, and at once, he overrides the suffocating, lung-piercing odour of dependency that comes hovering in with the cleverly contrived notion of a desire for dominance. Much more apt, he figures, satisfied.

–But it changes not the fact that he is yearning.

He seethes at the thought, and at the same time, he is — as always — intrigued.

Now intrigued at the lengths to which he will go and claim this light for himself.

Of a sun-lit, stalwart angel, one enamoured by tales of camaraderie–

–He has none of that to offer. Nothing but the void with which he was born, the void of which he is fully, so horrendously composed.

But he frets not as he turns, caving slowly in to slumber, for the malicious snares that adorn his mind are still intact.

And it is with this assurance that a smirk weaves through, as he pictures feathers raining ominously down on an endless terrain of black — each one resounding with the seconds that it takes for him to drift into sleep.

And, true to the nature of a boy carved from nothingness, the relish of anguish lives on in his dreams.